Monthly Archives: November 2014


Things I need today:

1.) The case and/or trial for the asshats, who invaded the family of my best friend’s home and tied them up at gunpoint, to go at quickly and with as little hassle for those I care about. They’ve already been through enough.

2.) My uterus to stop trying to murder itself or whatever the hell it’s doing in there. Whatever it is, it’s way too painful to suffer through at work. Ready for a heating pad and bed.

3.) To find a new job. Being laid off at the end of the year sucks. Even if it’s for the “best reason possible” (my government contract is ending and my company couldn’t find a replacement) so I got many recommendation letters and references/referrals. But I really don’t want to go through unemployment.

4.) Thanksgiving to go swiftly. There is too much family coming into town and having to try and manage two separate Thanksgiving dinners within a 3 hour period is already intimidating me. I just want it to be Friday right now.

5.) My boxes to finish unpacking themselves. I swear to god at my new house the unpacking never ends. I came from a freakin’ one bedroom apartment. Where did all this stuff come from???

6.) My physical-health to remain at a low, manageable level during my (hopefully brief) period of no insurance. I can’t deal with a hefty medical bill at the moment.

7.) My mental-health to continue to cope as best it can with the severe lack of friendship lately. I’m going to keep assuming it’s holidays, or school, or work, or other matters that caused my “pool” of friends and support to suddenly dry up, even if that darker part of me assumes it’s me (of course it’s you- you’re a terrible friend). But I can push through this. With the help of the pills and the powder, I can deal with it myself.

Gentle thoughts to all of you.

Disclaimer: #7 is referring to friends I deal with in person. I know many of my followers on here (and one I talk to via email/messaging) are very supportive. And I appreciate that. It’s just hard when I don’t have someone to literally sit next to me and make me focus on something besides my own head.

Lies to my mother

It would be beautiful to say that my mother and I have always been close…

But that isn’t the case.

I know that childlike part of me didn’t understand why she couldn’t save me from the trips to the alley. Didn’t understand that she truly had no idea and had so much on her plate striking out as a single mom. That if she had known, obviously it wouldn’t have continued.

But I didn’t tell her.

I wanted my mother to be Super Woman. To read my mind and see all the horror, know all the pain. All the moments I couldn’t speak of. I wanted to see her fury strike out against Him and her love carry me far away from the dirty gravel behind the garage.

I wanted her to see the spell on my mouth. The invisible glue that sealed my lips the moment I thought of saying anything. I wanted her to take one look and gasp in horror. In comprehension.

But my mask was strong. It was impermeable. My box was strong. It held all it needed to. Nothing overflowed. Nothing got past.

It went like this for longer than I care to describe in true numeric fashion. In the child’s mind, it was a lifetime. A lifetime of secrets, of masks, of boxes. A lifetime of playing hide and seek.

Then we moved.

This is a rare picture of me smiling. It was taken in front of the new house. Far from the alley and the garage of horror. Far away.

Mom and me

Super Woman had, in her own unknowing way, come through. I was free.

But the shackles left their scars. Their marks.

And smiles like this were still rare. And blame lasts a lot longer than you’d think.

It wasn’t until well into high school that I tentatively tried to reach out. To turn a rickety relationship into a bond. And it wasn’t easy.

And I will never forget the look on her face when I finally broke the seal on the box and peeled off the mask for a moment. When I found that long buried courage and told her.

And even then, I looked around to make sure demons wouldn’t crawl through the walls and report my words.

(lies lies lies- He said- no one will ever believe)

But all I was confronted with was the expression of my mother as a part of her withered in horror. In remorse. In blame.

And in that moment, I knew without a doubt- that I never truly blamed her at all.

The Boyfriend and Mental Health

Things are tangled today.

My thoughts, my feelings, my very self.

This past weekend Army and I spent a couple days together at my new house being couple-y and domestic. Something we’ve been giving some more thought to since I have a house now.

And at one point, mental-health came up (in a round about way, not in regards to me). Especially personality disorders.
In the past, Army has been understanding of depression and PTSD, but I think that is because he’s struggled with it. It is empathy as opposed to sympathy. He’s never really been able to truly grasp sympathy, even though I think he wants to. At least with me.

I’m trying to keep this post from degrading into a bitchy rant about his inability to be sensitive. We’ll see how I do.

Anyway, personality disorders came up.

And he immediately gets riled up and goes on a soapbox about how Sybil is a big, fat liar and so all personality disorders are crap and schizophrenia is the only “semi-legit crazy issue”.

I was floored. I am floored. I am completely at a loss. I tried to push back and explain that, just like the [multiple] people who’ve falsely claim to have Ebola it doesn’t void the legitimacy of the whole disease.

But I am not sure if I truly got through. I wasn’t brave enough to use myself as an example. I was terrified at him calling me a liar and faker. I’m a coward. And he refuses to compare physical health to mental health.

And now I question myself. Am I liar? A faker? Is all the issues I’ve struggled with regarding my identity since that abuse so long ago just a ripple in a pond? Caused by those pebbles I tossed in myself?

I am at a loss.

I feel lost.

Unsure Reason

*TW: self-harm*

I self-harmed.

At work.

In a knee-jerk, habitual way.

Just felt…off suddenly. Calmly reached into the back of my desk drawer for my “emergency blade” (that I also use to do marketing stuff for work as a cover) and automatically go to the bathroom.

Back stall. Lock the door. Make sure I’m alone.

Drag it across my hip.

And I fucking sighed in relief at the pain of it.

It disturbs and disgusts me how easily I fall back into it. It rots me inside. I hate it. I hate myself. I can’t shake it.

It’s been fucking months.

I went through the whole stressing of buying a goddamn house and moving in and didn’t self-harm one time.

Why today?

Things are not extremely bad. I mean, they aren’t all sunshine and unicorn farts, but they aren’t awful.

I don’t understand it. But the sweet relief I feel now is the same sharp, sugary, melting feeling it’s always been.

I hate this.

And I can’t stop.